


Layover

by VigilantShadow



Series: Amnesty Prompt Fills [3]
Category: The Adventure Zone (Podcast), The Adventure Zone: Amnesty (Podcast)
Genre: Dani is there briefly, It's fine they're in love, M/M, Then meet angst, meet cute, then meet cute again?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-02
Updated: 2019-04-02
Packaged: 2019-12-30 17:53:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18320303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VigilantShadow/pseuds/VigilantShadow
Summary: Barclay's been working at Amnesty Bar and Grill (over by Gate 3) for a good long while. There's not a lot of familiar faces passing through. Not aside from the guy in the suit that always comes and sits at the bar.





	Layover

**Author's Note:**

  * For [meowrails](https://archiveofourown.org/users/meowrails/gifts).



> This is for gaytaako/albaaca!
> 
> [You can also read it on my blog.](http://sternspatreon.tumblr.com/post/183758140434/gaytaako-its-been-10000-years-but-here-we-are)

A lot of men in suits pass through Kepler Airport. When Barclay had first gotten his job at Amnesty Bar and Grill, over by Gate 3, that’d been a bit of a surprise. After all, he hardly ever saw men in suits anywhere else in Kepler. **  
**

By the time he’d overheard a few dozen conversations between a group of them – usually only buying one drink, and tipping almost nothing – about the business meetings they were getting to, the future of wall street, how much of a pain layovers were, he’d figured it out. Kepler wasn’t a place where well-off men stuck around, it was a place they stopped while going from one place they actually cared about to another.

There were a few people who almost seemed like exceptions, though. Kepler was still a delay between point A and point B, but it was one they welcomed.

Case in point: the man currently trying his hardest to walk past Amnesty without meeting Barclay’s eyes.

This wasn’t how things usually went, when it came to the two of them. Up until two months ago, their interactions had gone more or less the same. More or less like this:

Every few weeks Barclay would catch sight of him stepping out of the gate, rolling his neck to get tension out of it and holding a briefcase in his hand. He’d drop heavily into one of the uncomfortable chairs nearby, pull out a book, and read for a few hours. Sometimes he’d finish, check his watch, and a panic would break open the pleasantly neutral expression on his face as he strode quickly toward some other gate.

More often, he’d saunter over to the bar, sliding onto one of the stools and ordering something random off the tap. Barclay had no clue why, since half the time it ended with him trying to hide a disgusted frown once he’d taken his first sip. Still, he always finished it. Finished it, then waited a while before ordering another one, or getting something small to eat. It would sometimes be hours before he left, and he’d spend those hours bent over a notebook, twirling his pen in his hand and usually frowning.

He always tipped well, always paid in cash. When he left, he gave Barclay a wave and a smile had something behind it. It might’ve been wishful thinking, Barclay projecting on the polite man with the sharp cheekbones and deep brown eyes. Projecting was dangerous, of course, because flirting with a customer would be a bad idea even aside from the fact that each time he passed through might be the last. Which was why it was six months before Barclay found out who the man actually was.

Agent Stern, of the FBI’s Unexplained Phenomena division.

Well, six months before he’d gotten the name at least. It was the ninth or tenth time Barclay had seen Stern, which was just enough times for Barclay to know Stern was having a bad day. He’d forgone reading a book entirely, trudging directly to the bar and very clearly faking the smile he shot Barclay as he ordered a cider. He barely touched it for the next three hours, scowling down at his notebook and clicking his pen with enough ferocity Barclay worried it might break.

Barclay generally had a rule against initiating small talk with customers, in general. If he got into small talk, he might get attached. That wasn’t just a rule for handsome men who he shouldn’t flirt with because they might suddenly disappear forever, or at the very least might turn out to be assholes when it came to conversations longer than asking how each other’s days had been. Or because if he didn’t turn out to be an asshole then Barclay would have more of a reason to hate the idea of Stern never passing through again. Sure, that rule doubly applied to men like Stern, but he’d be having this crisis about anyone. Definitely.

This is a bad idea, Barclay told himself, then leaned across the bar and said “hey, ignore me if this is weird but. I was just thinking that it’d be nice for us to, uh, stop being strangers?”

He’d realized exactly how weird that was about two seconds after it was too late to take the words back. Barclay froze, trying to remember if there was anyone he could ask to take his shift so he could go hide in the back and maybe never come back to the airport again.

It was a long conversation, one that left Barclay grateful nobody else dropped by. He’d found out plenty about Stern, then. He was born in Montana, but lived in DC. Happy childhood, dead father, a mother he called every other Thursday. He lived in a small apartment because he wasn’t at home enough to justify anything properly homey. He wasn’t a salesman because “God, no, people don’t take me seriously enough for that,” and wasn’t a stock broker or accountant because “numbers aren’t really my strong suit.” It was only after Stern left for his flight that Barclay realized two things: that he’d told Stern even more about himself, maybe more than he should, and that Stern had never told him what his job was.

That he’d found out three months ago, when Stern had dropped by the bar near eleven at night – an hour before it closed. There’d been exactly one other person there, and he’d been one drink away from Barclay cutting him off. Then he’d finished that drink, so Barclay cut him off. He hadn’t been happy.

“Now you listen to me, Mr. Bartender,” the man had started, one finger jabbing the air just far enough away that Barclay wouldn’t be able to claim self-defense if he did anything. It was close enough, though, that Barclay found himself applying half his brainpower to deciding exactly what he’d do if the guy got any closer.

“Is everything alright here?”

Applying half his brainpower to deciding exactly what he’d do unfortunately meant he found himself startled by Stern’s voice. Both Barclay and the drunk man turned toward where he leaned against the bar, one hand on his hip pulling his jacket back just enough to reveal a shiny gold badge. The smile on his face was just a bit wider than his usual one. Even more polite. Polite enough to set Barclay on edge.

“This guy won’t-“

“I wasn’t asking you, sir.” Stern looked at Barclay, who was only just processing the letters on the badge at Stern’s hip. “Everything alright here, Barclay?”

As soon as Stern said Barclay’s name, said it with a warmth that looked out of place with that false smile on his mouth, the drunkard seemed to realize the situation wasn’t going to go his way. He slapped his hands onto the bar with more force than necessary, dragging himself to his feet and stalking off. As soon as he was out of sight Stern’s smile relaxed, and he slid into the stool behind him.

“Thanks.” Barclay grinned at Stern, pretending that the look Stern had on his face a second before hadn’t reminded him of a few other interactions he’d had with the FBI which were a little less than pleasant. Stern’s smile softened even more.

“My pleasure,” he said, then laughed. “You know, I’m glad just the badge was enough to scare them off.”

Barclay tried to imagine what kind of reasonable person wouldn’t be. Then, he remembered the stock brokers and businessmen that sat at his bar and talked big about how important they were. The ones who demanded to speak to his manager when their cards were declined, and tried to mouth off to Mama when he pulled her from the back. Some of them probably wouldn’t be.

“What do you do when people aren’t? Pull out your gun?”

Stern actually looked offended at that. Then, he seemed to realize Barclay was joking. Or rather trying to sound like he was joking, because he really did want to know the answer. His secret was a little too big for him not to know the answer.

“No, I get out my ID.” Stern reached into a pocket of his jacket and pulled out one of those badge holders FBI agents always had on TV. He flipped it open, expression vaguely embarrassed. “I don’t know why I bother, though. It…usually makes things worse.”

A younger Stern stared out at Barclay, unsmiling and lacking a small scar that curved down the present Stern’s jaw. The card announced him as Lucky Stern, and Barclay wondered for a moment if that’s what Stern meant when he said showing people made things worse, because even with a coworker who he respected and cared for dearly that had the last name Coolice, Barclay had to put effort into not smiling at it.

Then he caught sight of the two words at the bottom and froze. Unexplained Phenomena.

He’d never heard of that division, but it wasn’t hard to guess what that meant. It meant not only was Stern in the same branch of government as the people whose spotlight Barclay had put ten years of time and effort and fear into getting out of, he was one of those people. Barclay was grateful that his hands were hidden behind the bar, because he couldn’t stop them from shaking.

Stern didn’t seem to notice Barclay’s fear, just the fact he was hiding something. He laughed, harsh and self-deprecating, and flipped the badge holder closed.

“I know, I know. It looks ridiculous, doesn’t it? You can make a joke about it, if you want. I’ve gotten to the point I can let people have a free one before it bothers me.”

Barclay blinked.

“What do you mean?”

“Ask me if I’ve seen any aliens. Or whether I know Bigfoot. Or, hm.” Stern leaned back, tapping his chin. “A lot of people ask me how Agent Mulder is doing.”

“I wasn’t going to make a joke,” Barclay managed, and somehow didn’t sound nervous. A traitorous part of his brain kicked in and informed him he can say yes to the first two questions. Barclay quieted it down before the awkward silence went on too long and continued. “I just…didn’t think that the FBI actually had a, you know, division for stuff like that.”

Stern shrugged.

“We barely do, honestly. There’s only six of us, which,” he gestured, “is part of why I’m here all the time. Too many weird things happening, not enough of us to look into them.”

Gate 3 was where the flights from DC always landed. That meant that each time Stern landed, he was about to head off to look into things. Barclay tried his best to hope that those things were dead ends, the sort of shallow hoaxes that all those people who laughed at Stern must have been picturing. It didn’t work. He resisted the urge to toy with the bracelet around his wrist. He resisted the urge to be sick.

A distant voice announced a flight to Houston, and Stern stood. He gave one last smile, and from the tilt of it Barclay could tell that he knew he’d said something wrong. He set money down on the counter, two much for what he’d gotten.

“My coworkers complain about all the flying,” Stern said softly. Barclay somehow managed to meet his eyes. “I don’t mind it. After all, it means I get to come here, right?”

Despite himself, Barclay felt himself relax a little at that.

“Me too,” Barclay said. He stretched a hand out over the bar and Stern took it, the little bit of worry that had settled between his eyebrows smoothing out. Stern let out a relieved breath, and despite the mess of thoughts already in Barclay’s head he realized that Stern had thought that revelation might backfire.

The voice announced the flight again.

“I’ll see you again soon,” Stern said, pulling away.

Once he was out of sight, the little bit of warmth conjured up by Stern’s words disappeared. Barclay squeezed his eyes shut and tried his best to breathe in, breath out. He gave up and fled to the back to ask Mama to finish his shift.

–

The next time Stern came through Kepler, Barclay found himself ducking behind the bar before the other man could spot him. Or, at least, Barclay hoped he avoided being spotted. It occurred to him a few seconds later that he was being an idiot, probably, but he was already kneeling on the cold tile floor. He might as well lean into the whole idiot thing, while he was there.

So, he slipped into the back and asked Dani to cover for him. Not Mama, because she’d ask questions like she had the last time, and when he eventually answered then things would go into crisis mode. Which, sure, Barclay had a thing for a cryptid hunter so maybe they were in crisis mode, actually.

Barclay squeezed himself between the wall and the freezer, and tried to figure out whether they were in crisis mode.

Alright, point for crisis mode: a cryptid hunting FBI unit had apparently decided Kepler was a good spot for a layover.

Point against: it was just for layovers, which meant they didn’t suspect anything was wrong in Kepler.

Point for: even if Amnesty didn’t have to go into general crisis mode, Barclay was hiding in the kitchen like an idiot, despite the fact that the last time they’d seen each other he’d most definitely indicated he was interested. So, sure, their secret might be safe. But Barclay was feeling more and more like an ass with each passing moment.

An hour later, Dani pushed open the door to the kitchen and entered, dishrag over her shoulder and flannel sleeves rolled up in a way Barclay knew she only did to show off her arms to the barista from the Starbucks by Gate 2.

“He’s gone,” she said, and from the hard tone of her voice Barclay could tell the way she must’ve interpreted his request that she cover his shift, just until that guy in the suit leaves. If he asks about me I’m not here.

Really, he couldn’t blame her. But he also couldn’t let her keep hold of that impression because, well. This was still Stern, who once told Barclay that he’d learned all the languages he did because he hated not being able to talk to people, but figured it was unfair to make them learn English just because he was nosy. It wouldn’t be fair to get his coworkers to hate the guy, even if it would make it a lot easier to never process the whole cryptid hunting business.

“Dani, no, he’s not…he wasn’t bothering me.”

Dani leaned against the doorframe, giving him a knowing grin. Given that he’d teased her about her pursuing Starbucks girl four or five times, he couldn’t even bring himself to be annoyed by it.

“Oh? ‘Cuz you booked it back here like he’d either been creeping on you, or like you panicked because of a big stupid crush. And I figured you wouldn’t be one to hide in the back ‘cuz of a big stupid crush, so I thought it must’ve been the first one.”

“Dani.” He tried to inject some authority into his voice. Usually it worked well enough, on account of he was one and a half times her age and technically her supervisor. Apparently he just managed to sound desperate, because she ended up biting her lip to hold back a laugh. She failed.

“Sorry, sorry, I just…Barclay, you should just talk to him next time!” She managed to get her giggling under control. “Honestly, I figured you two were already a thing.”

“Why?”

“It’s been two years?”

Barclay sighed.

“Yeah, yeah it has. But…” He shouldn’t say anything. Ghosting Stern was a dick move, but if he could manage a clean break then there might not be any real drama. If everyone found out about the whole FBI Secret Agent Monster Hunting thing? Or, well, Barclay didn’t know if Unexplained Phenomena meant any actual monster hunting was going on or if it was just dead-end ghost investigations and looking into psychics. But that had been his first reaction, and he was pretty sure it wouldn’t be the worst one out of everybody at Amnesty. Which meant there would be drama. A lot of drama. Maybe drama that involved actual violence, which wouldn’t be great.

“Yeah?” She asked, and Barclay swallowed.

“I just don’t know if I can be into a guy that doesn’t live around here, is all.”

Dani seemed to buy it, which made Barclay feel even worse about the whole thing. But it’d be better this way, better for everyone. And all he had to do was stay away from Stern for a while.

* * *

 

Barclay managed to stay away from Stern for two months. That involves five narrowly-avoided incidents, teaching Jake to manage the bar so he had someone to cover him that wouldn’t raise her eyebrows like Dani or offer to murder Stern for Barclay’s honor like Mama, and the realization that somehow Stern only came through Kepler when Barclay was on shift. And the fact that Stern had been through Kepler more often since Barclay started dodging him.

That had Barclay panicking for a solid twenty minutes, because what if this had all been an elaborate ruse to get Amnesty to lower its defenses? Then Barclay realized that was fucking stupid, because every flight from D.C. landed at either eleven am or eight pm on Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday, and that section of time involved pretty much every shift Barclay worked.

That realization led to Barclay relaxing on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Which was, as it turned out, a mistake.

It was a mistake, because it led him to this very moment, a minute after Stern got off a plane from Houston at exactly noon, locked eyes with Barclay, and began speed walking away.

It’s a minute after that, because it took thirty seconds to process the panic in Stern’s expression, and another thirty to process the fact that he wasn’t panicked, actually.

“Hey, Dani, can you cover me?” He calls back, not even waiting for her to say yes or no before he leaves the bar and tries to figure out the best way to intercept Stern. He has to be subtle about this. He can’t go dramatically shouting Stern’s name across the mostly-empty path that ran across the airport; that would just embarrass him both. He can’t chase him down and grab his shoulder, because chasing people down and grabbing them is a dick move. He can’t-

As it turns out, he doesn’t need to plan, because Stern is sitting in a chair next to the Jamba Juice at Terminal 4 with his head in his hands. Barclay takes a deep breath and slides into the chair across from him. He’d hoped to be quiet, but the table shifts ever so slightly as he sets his hand on it and Stern jumps.

“I’ve been an asshole,” Barclay says, before Stern can act on his obvious impulse to flee. “And, uh, you can go to your gate and avoid me forever if you want. But I wanted to say I’m sorry first.”

Stern’s weight settles back into his seat.

“I wasn’t upset,” he says, the pause before that last word indicating that he most definitely was upset at some point. “I, well. At first I assumed I was just missing you, but when I asked the boy covering for you said-“

“I just stepped out?” Barclay guesses, and when Stern nods Barclay tries his best to be annoyed with Jake instead of with himself.

“Yeah. I’m…sure you had your reasons. But you could have told me you didn’t want to see me again, I would have understood.” He almost manages not to seem passive aggressive. Barclay would be impressed, under better circumstances.

“I did. Have my reasons, I mean.” He leans back, the chair creaking under his weight, and wishes that Jamba Juice was being covered by literally anyone other than Keith and Hollis. He doesn’t want to have to deal with the Hornet Gossip Mill on top of everything else. “But I think they might’ve been stupid reasons.” Well, he doesn’t totally believe that. But he can’t think of any partial explanation that doesn’t sound stupid.

“Are you a serial killer?” Stern asks, suddenly. Barclay blinks.

“What?” He’s aware that his voice sounds a little strangled, though not for the reasons Stern thinks. Judging by Stern’s weak smile he’d meant it as a joke, but really it’s closer to the truth than Barclay is comfortable with.

“Thank God. I was wondering if I should be looking into West Virginia’s active warrants.”

Barclay laughs. It’s mostly just to break the tension.

“No, no. None of that, I just, well.” For just a moment, Barclay considers telling Stern. Then he decides no, despite that impulse he doesn’t want to be forgiven enough to risk death. “Some of my people have had a little trouble with…” Barclay gestures to Stern, who frowns just a little. “Not the kind you’ve gotta worry about, it was all false reports and all that, but it made me a little nervous. On account of, well, I’m fond of you. I didn’t want things to go bad between you and me an’ mine.”

“So you were willing to make things go bad between just you and me?”

“Like I said, stupid reasons.”

The look Stern is giving Barclay is unreadable. Well, Barclay can’t tell whether it’s unreadable or if he just doesn’t want to read it. He just stares at Barclay for a second, mouth a thin, straight line. With each passing moment, Barclay feels tension creep up his spine. Then he starts laughing just a little desperately, running a hand through his hair.

“You know, you’re lucky you’re cute,” Stern manages, and Barclay relaxes.

“Yeah,” he replies, taking a deep breath. Stern shoots him a tired little smile. Then he checks his watch.

“I have an hour and a half before my flight,” Stern says. “How about you make all this up to me by showing me what there is to do in this airport aside from read and pine about the bartender.”

“Well, I happen to get an employee discount at the local grill,” Barclay answers, and Stern’s smile gets a little more real.

This can work, Barclay thinks. And sure, maybe he’s just lying to himself. But as they walk back toward Amnesty Stern bumps his shoulder lightly against Barclay’s, and Barclay thinks that the time before things go to hell might make this worth it.


End file.
